Next moment, tremulous but smiling, I was descending the steps to meet the counterfeit lover awaiting me. My head was on his breast and my arm stealing slowly about his neck before I knew that the closed fan in my hand was crushed into fragments and marks of blood showing between my clinched fingers. My first lines were simply recited, without meaning, then the tender words and courtly manners aroused my imagination. The glamour of the stage was upon me. The frightened actress ceased to exist—I was the Spanish girl whose long-mourned lover had returned to her; and there was something lacking in the greeting, some tone of the voice, some glance of the eye seemed strange, alien. There was more of ardor, less of tenderness than before. My lips trembled; suddenly I heard the veiled, pathetic tone I had all day striven for in vain, and curiously enough it never struck me that it was my voice—no! it was the Spanish girl who spoke. My heart leaped up in my throat with a great pity, tears rushed to my eyes, fell upon my cheeks. There was applause—of course, was not Miss St. Clair there? Suspicion arose in my mind—grew. I bethought me of the saving of my life on that stolen day passed in the forest long ago. I took my lover's hand and with pretty wiles drew him into the moonlight. Then swiftly stripping up the lace ruffles, showed his arm smooth and unblemished by any scar, and with the cry: "You are not Pascal de la Garde!" stood horror-stricken.
The moment the curtain fell Miss St. Clair sprang to me, and taking my face between her hands, she cried: "You would move a heart of stone!" She wiped her eyes, and turning to her husband, said: "Good God! she's a marvel!"
"No, no!" he snuffled, "not yet, Sallie; but she's a marvel in embryo!" He patted me on the shoulder. "You have a fortune somewhere between your throat and your eyes, my girl—you have, indeed!"
And then I rushed to don my borrowed robes for the next act, and stared stupidly when Hattie said: "What lovely applause you got, Clara, and you so frightened; you shook all over when you went on, we could see you."
But I was too excited over what was yet to be done really to comprehend her words. When I saw myself in the glass I was delighted. The open robe of pale blue satin, brocaded with silver, was lifted at the sides with big bunches of blush and deep-pink roses over a white satin petticoat. I wore a high Spanish comb, a white mantilla, a pink rose over the ear, after the national fashion, and a great cluster of roses at my breast, and for the first time I felt the subtle joy that emanates from beautiful and becoming garments. The fine softness of the rich fabric was pleasant to my touch—its silken rustle was music to my ear. Miss St. Clair had lent me of her best, and as I saw it all reflected there, I thought how easy it must be for the rich to be good and happy, never dreaming that the wealthy, who to escape ennui and absolute idleness sometimes did wrong simply because there was nothing else to do, might think in turn, ah! how easy it must be for the poor to be good and happy.
But the overture ended abruptly. I gathered up my precious draperies and ran to the entrance to be ready for my cue. The first speeches were cold, haughty, and satirical. The gypsy who was personating my dead lover had deceived everyone else, even the half-blind old mother had accepted him as her son, though declaring him greatly changed in temper and in manner. But I, the sweetheart, was not convinced, and ignoring the advice of the highest at the court, was fighting the adventurer with the courage of despair.
As the scene went on, the stage hands (carpenters, gas-men, scene-shifters, etc.) began to gather in the entrances, always a sign of something unusual going on. I saw them—an ugly thought sprang up in my mind. Ah, yes, they are there waiting to see the ballet-girl fail in a leading part! An unworthy suspicion, I am sure, but it acted as a spur would have done upon an already excited horse, and with the same result, loss of self-control.
In the denunciation of the adventurer as a murderer and a personator of his own victim my passion rose to a perfect fury. I swept the stage, storming, raging, fearing nothing under heaven but the possible escape of the wretch I hated! Vaguely I noted the manager reaching far over a balcony to see me—I didn't care even for the manager. The audience burst into tremendous applause; I didn't care for that either, I only wanted to see a rapier through the heart of the pale, sneering man before me. It was momentary madness. People were startled—the star twice forgot her lines. It was not correct, it was not artistic work. She, the part, was a great lady, and even her passion should have been partially restrained; but I, who played her, a ballet-girl, earning $5 a week, what could you expect, pray, for the price? Certainly not polish or refinement. But the genuine feeling, the absolute sincerity, and the crude power lavished upon the scene delighted the audience and created a very real sensation.
The curtain fell. Miss St. Clair took me into her kind arms and, without a word, kissed me heartily. The applause went on and on. She caught my hand and said, "Come!" As she led me to the curtain, I suddenly realized her intention, and a very agony of bashfulness seized upon me. I struggled frantically. "Oh, don't!" I begged. "Oh, please, I'm nobody, they won't like it, Miss St. Clair."
She motioned the men to pull back the curtain, and she dragged me out before it with her. The applause redoubled. Shamed and stupid, I stood there, my chin on my breast. Then I heard the laugh I so admired (Miss St. Clair had a laugh that the word merry describes perfectly), her arm went about my neck, while her fingers beneath my chin lifted my face till I met her smiling glance and smiled back at her. Then the audience burst into a great laugh, and bowing awkwardly to them and to her, I backed off, out of sight, as quickly as I could; she, bowing like a young prince, followed me. But again they called, and again the generous woman took me with her.